The Online Literary Magazine of Cerritos College

Essay

Gafia Green

Mechanical Family Members

   Due to the strange circumstances of my life, I haven't owned many automotive vehicles.  As a matter of fact, I am atypically Californian in that I didn't even get my driver's license ‘til I was 25 (there is, of course, a fascinating story behind that, but I won't bore you with the details just now.)

   My first car was a blue German Opel.  These are nifty little cars, (emphasis on the little) and just big enough for me, my three small children, and the groceries. Now and again my 6'7" husband tried to insert himself into the car.  Of course, all the pundits suggest family closeness.  This nice car lasted about a year before it gave up the ghost, victim of too much mileage and a faulty universal joint.

   My next car, purchased about a year later, was a white Ford Pinto. This was a scary car.  It smelled weird, too.  It lasted only for about 6 months before we parted company, me back to public transit, it to the great Pic-A-Part yard in the sky (well, actually, West LA.)

   A few years later, after my divorce, I had the use of a Volvo for about a year.  Volvos are great cars!  This one had low mileage and most everything worked.  Of course, I became suspicious of its general health while trying to give it an oil change.  The damned oil filter wouldn't come off.  For a full weekend, I struggled with that little white can; I even recruited some neighbors to help me with it.  I finally got a sharp knife and cut the aluminum can to bits.  This, naturally, was a mistake.  Seems the oil filter was the only thing holding the engine in the car: the engine mounts were busted.

   It was towed to the local Volvo dealer (the one big problem with Volvos: when they have mechanical difficulties, they have to go to Volvo dealers, no one else fixes them properly.)   The mechanics laughed themselves into hysterics.  Then, they installed new motor mounts and remounted the engine.  Also, I finally got my oil changed.

   After another rather short period of public transportation (the Volvo didn't collapse; it was returned to the custody of my sister) I went car shopping for a vehicle that would last.  I wanted something that would be comfy and take me places and not need repairs and would be big enough for my family (my son takes after his father; at 16 he's 6'4" and growing.)  This is when I met George.

   George wasn't George from the first; he started out as my 1986 Chrysler New Yorker, deep maroon colored, leather interior, digital display, premium wheel covers, plush carpeting, big seats, huge back seat, nice old car.  The first time I left the door open when I keyed the ignition, a mellow male voice said, "Don't forget your keys."  I closed the door and started driving; a smooth male voice said, "Please fasten your seat belts."

   This was my introduction to George.

   George has seen me through the last five years of my life.  He complains bitterly when he's wet. He goes through all his messages, then says, "There's a problem with your electrical system.  Immediate attention is required.")  He tries to keep us safe with seatbelt warnings and speed warnings.  He lets me know when he's feeling poorly ("The oil pressure is low.  Immediate attention is required.") and when he needs to be fed ("Your fuel is low.")  If the trunk is raised, and we try to drive, he'll warn me about the danger.  If I've pushed him too hard on a particular day's driving, he'll say, "Your engine is overheating."

   We've gone to Las Vegas and San Francisco; San Diego and Santa Barbara; Big Bear and Magic Mountain.   George gets us there and waits patiently in the parking lot for our return.   He wakes in the morning, gets me to work, to school, to the store, wherever I need to go.  However, he is an older car, and senility is a natural occurrence after time.

   When the smoke started pouring from under George's hood, I was worried, so I pulled over to the curb.   When the smoke turned black, I became scared, hopped out of George, and lifted the hood.  The flames were merrily bouncing around on his hoses and engine block; George was being consumed!  A water hose was eaten through and steam hissed from the engine compartment; but to the last, George protected me, and no gasoline was ever released into the fire.

   A panicked passer-by retrieved a fire extinguisher and buried the flames while I called the fire department.  The woman on the phone said, "What's your emergency?"

   "My car's on fire," I said, crying.

   "The fire engines will be right there," she reassured me.

   I stood beside George as the fire department and the various sheriff's agencies showed up.  I had pulled over in a multi-jurisdictional area.  Sheriffs and police from county and city surrounded George as he died.

   George looked so peaceful, parked at the curb, as if awaiting our return to action.  Only the burned-out hoses and puddle of ashed rubber in his engine indicated that this would be the scene of George's death.

   Recently, I acquired another car.  Not a replacement.  I've been trying to name it, but nothing comes to mind.  This is a nice little POS Pontiac Sunbird convertible, bright red, sporty and fast; and I'll probably never buy another sedan again, because I like the convertible so much.  Still, I miss George.  I will never forget my last view of him, in the impound yard, sitting there so dignified and alone, in seemingly perfect condition, surrounded by dozens of smashed and broken cars.

   Goodbye, George.

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